Butterflies in Heat (11 page)

At six o'clock that morning, a loud banging was heard from downstairs.

"What the hell?" Numie asked, turning over and sinking deeper into the satin-encased pillow.

"That's my nephew," Lola said sleepily. "Be a sweetie and let him in. He's come for that cat."

"What a time to wake up," Numie said. "Why don't you give him a key?" Nude, he stumbled out of bed and made his way down the steps into the bar.

The first rays of light were breaking through the glass panes of the door. The calico cat still slept on the bar. Taking the night latch off, he pulled back the door.

There on the early morning sidewalk stood Castor
Q.
Combes.

"Violet eyes," the boy shouted. "You owe me money."

"Castor, you little informer bastard. Come on in."

"You owe me a dollar," Castor said. "You didn't finish the tour. And watch who you're calling bastard, white boy"

Behind the bar Numie searched under the cash register. Some crumpled bills were left from last night. He tossed Castor three dollars. "There," he said. "Now that evens the score."

Castor fingered the bills carefully. "I hope this isn't counterfeit." Then he went over and picked up his cat from the bar. "He's mine. I've been loaning him to Lola at night to catch a big rat in this bar. But
I
always come and get him in the morning to feed him.
I
don't let him stay here during the day 'cause
I
don't want no cat of mine associating with the white trash who come to this bar. Which reminds me. What are you doing here?"

"Just dropped in for a drink."

Castor seemed satisfied with that explanation. "I've got to warn you about my aunt, Lola
La
Mour. That's not her real name. You'd better put on your clothes when you're around her. She's a queer.
I
won't let her touch me or even get near me."

"Thanks for the tip, Castor baby," Numie said, guiding him to the door.
"If
she bothers me in any way,
I'll
call the sheriff."

"No, you can't do that," Castor said. "He's one, too."

"Then I'll have to handle the situation myself."

Castor eyed him suspiciously for a moment. "Come to think of it,
you're
one, too. Now, get on, cat," he called as he slowly

sauntered down the shabby street. He kicked an empty beer can, sending
it
dancing across the cobblestones.

Another day in Tortuga.

That night Numie was sitting at a quiet corner table at Commodore Philip's. A glow from within was warming his blood. That and the third double Scotch Lola had placed on his table.

Under her blonde wig, Lola was at the bar, laughing and talking with the few customers.

Impulsively, Numie slammed down his drink. What was he doing shacking up with a black drag queen? Had he come this low in his search for a bread ticket?

Getting up, he walked to the men's room. There he stood—not really needing to go, but somehow wanting to get out of the bar. He was alone in the toilet. The smell was foul, yet he remained almost by compulsion. Maybe from force of habit.

So many nights spent—wasted!—in a latrine. A dangling cock—was that what Numie Chase had to offer to the world? Was
it
all? He feared
it
was. No one had ever wanted friendship. No one ever saw talent, ability. The whole world was on a sex trip. He wasn't on the sex trip.
They
were. Everyone he met.

Head spinning, he propped his elbow against the wall. All those faceless men who'd stood beside him at latrines were on the march tonight. He could hear their voices, the dialogue changing little from town to town:

"New York's a pretty quiet place tonight, huh?"

"Not much doing in Atlanta tonight, huh?"

'This Washington goes to bed at nine o'clock, huh?"

"How about a drink?"

"How about a drink?"

'The chairs in this fleabag are uncomfortable—we'd better sit on the bed."

"Sure is hot in here. Better take off your things."

"I've got a wife and three kids."

"I've never done this before with a guy"

"A drink?"

"A drink?"

A sudden rap, and Lola was throwing open the door. "Just checking," she said, "to see that you're not being molested."

Straightening up, he zipped up his pants and headed out. "Yeah, I'm alone," he said.

From out of nowhere popped Tangerine—a red hibiscus in her orange hair and an extra coat of blood-colored lipstick on her mouth. "Lola," she called, "the last of the red-hot mamas is gonna shake it tonight."

"If
you shake that thing, the hinges will come apart!" Lola said. She embraced Tangerine across the bar, then mixed her a drink. "Go join that stud in the corner. Mind you, gal, I said join—don't touch."

By then Tangerine's back was turned. She was moving fast toward Numie's table.

"How you doing?" asked Tangerine.

"Fine," he said. He neither welcomed nor resented Tangerine's presence tonight.

She plopped down in the next chair.

No question about it: Tangerine was Halloween. She was a masquerade party. The tinsel on a tree. The ribbon on a package. More than that, too.

"I
just had to see you," she said.

"You heard about my getting busted?"

"Found out this afternoon," she said. "From Anne. She called Lola at the bar."

"I'm surprised. Leonora didn't know me."

"Leonora has to have her little dramas. Too bad, too, 'cause she could have got you out. Just like Lola did."

"She can have her dramas at somebody else's expense from now on," he said bitterly.

"Well, you're okay, and Yellowwood won't bother you again. Let's don't talk about Leonora no more. I'm much more fascinating."

"You certainly are." He sighed to himself, praying that Tangerine wasn't yet another woman on an ego trip.

"I've got to talk to you. I'm really sorry Anne put down your profession like that the other night.
I
don't think nobody should go putting down nobody else for the way they earn a living. Whatever your work is—just so long as it's honest—it's okay with me."

'Thank you, baby. That's good to hear." Was she being condescending?

"I really liked you, and I've been trying to figure out how I can help, 'cause I know you're broke."

"Really, I'm fine."

"Don't pretend with me. You can let it all hang out. I've got twenty dollars on me, and I could sure use your services."

'Tangerine," he said, laughing, "surely you're joking." No sooner had he said that than he regretted it. After all, a man who went to bed with Lola La Mour might also go to bed with Tangerine Blanchard.

The hurt on her face was instantly apparent.

"I didn't mean it that way," he apologized.

"You think I don't need loving?"

"Of course not! Everybody needs loving."

"Let me tell you something. The last time I went to bed with a man was so long ago I can hardly remember—he said that part of me stunk. That's right, stunk! What every girl wants to hear. He wouldn't go to bed with me, got up and put on his pants"

"C'mon," he said, "I don't want to hear it."

Ignoring his request, she went on. "Know what I did? scrubbed myself every which way. I even used Ajax one time. But it didn't help. That smell, I can't get rid of it. I do stink. Men won't touch me."

"Stop it!" he said. He gripped her wrist to make her pay attention. "You don't stink," he said
slowly—certain
that she heard his words now. "Don't let some bastard lay that kind of shit on you. The guy was a son of a bitch. He probably hated women. Forget it!"

She was almost crying. "You know what I've had to do? I'm not proud of it, and I'm not trying to shock you or. make you sick at your belly, but I've longed for a little loving so much. I used to have a big German shepherd." Her voice broke off. She started to weep.

"Don't cry ... Please"

"I'll
give you twenty dollars"

"Honey, I can't accept" He felt trapped. "Lola is very jealous."

"You and Lola?" she asked, taking his hand. "I didn't know, really I didn't. If I had known, I would never have
barged in like this. I'm so happy for you all. I would never break up a relationship or interfere in no way. You've got to believe that.
I'll
go and apologize to Lola."

"I don't think you'd better," he said, restraining her.

"Well, okay, but if making it with me is out of the question, why don't you come back to my place for a spaghetti dinner? Lola won't mind."

"Now that's an offer I can accept." A great burden lifted, he reached for his drink.

She bounded to her feet and wobbled across the bar toward Lola. "You won't mind
if
I take that good-looking boy friend of yours home for dinner?"

"Not
if
you bring him back," Lola said. "He needs some nourishment. Just make sure you feed him some protein. And don't let him drink too much."

"Drunk or sober," Numie interrupted, "you're gonna get it."

Lola squealed.

"You trust me with Tangerine?" Numie asked.

'Tangerine is the only one in town I'd trust you with," Lola said. "Tangerine hasn't had thoughts about sex since Harding was in the White House. Why, she'd even qualify to take up a collection for the Salvation Army."

He smiled at her, rubbing her chin with his thumb.
"If
one of your johns comes around, I told you what to do."

"I know what to do," Lola said. "Hey, lover man, here are the keys to the Facel-Vega. From now on, you're the man in the driver's sea t."

He made his way out of the bar. His back to Lola, he could drop the pretense. He'd behaved exactly as she wanted him to—the aggressive and jealous lover.

Moments later, a mountain of a woman under a citrus-orange peak was being transported up a dark street in a car much too small for her.

Behind the wheel, Numie was in control—riding high.

Tangerine lived on the top floor of a dilapidated, two-story frame house. Instead of panes, some of the windows had cardboard stuck in to keep out the rain and mosquitoes. They probably didn't.

Entering her apartment, he was surprised to find a man-sized hole in the hallway. You could see through to the apartment downstairs.

"I tried to cover it with boards, she explained. Then, one night I broke a toe in the crack. Now I just let it be." With despair she looked at her reflection in the hall mirror. "My mama never repaired nothing. Why should I?" Frowning, she brushed back her orange hair.

He walked across the wooden floorboard and stared down at the hole. "You could fall in—any damn time of the day or night. How are you supposed to get across?"

"Easy," she said, laughing. 'There's two ways. Slip by on the narrow side. Or else squeeze. Which, of course, I can't do since I got so damn fat. So I leap over. Like this." Picking up the skirttails of her flowered dress, she jumped. The flesh left her body, shooting out in all directions. She landed on the other side; and the house shook.

"Have to cross this hole to get to the john," she said when she caught her breath. "Wouldn't dare
try
that at night though. Shake my buddies downstairs out of bed. So I use a slop jar—the same one my mama used. It's all she left me."

He laughed loudly. She was wonderful!

"Go in and take a seat," she said. "I've gotta get busy with dinner."

In the living room, he sat down on a flea market sofa.

"Don't let one of those springs ruin your married life," she called in.

"Dammit, Tangerine! You sure this sofa isn't another one of your family heirlooms?"

She stuck her head in. "Help yourself to a drink. There's a smidge of bourbon left over there on the table. Don't bother with glasses. Us Georgia gals like our liquor straight."

'Thanks." At the table, he took the practically empty bottle. Holding it to his lips, he drained it.

Head spinning, he settled back on the sofa to think of Tangerine. She
was
a clown. A sad one. But she could laugh at herself. Something he couldn't do.

The way she brought everything out in the open—nothing seemed unmentionable. Or anyway, once mentioned, it lost some of its shame.

If
he could get close enough, maybe some of what she had would rub off.

Just then, she burst into the room with a plate of spaghetti for his lap. Meatless spaghetti out of a can. She poured two glasses of red wine.